


Nor Am I Out of It

by SylvanWitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Darkfic, Experimental, M/M, Second Person, apocalyptic, deal!fic (but not Dean's)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why this is hell, nor am I out of it."  (Marlow, <i>Doctor Faustus</i>)<br/>There are other kinds of deals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Am I Out of It

**Author's Note:**

> Written in March 2008. This is a second person experiment. It's extremely dark. Read at your own risk.

It’s two in the morning and you can’t sleep.  Fuck all if you know why.  Probably got something to do with the blood dripping from your nose.  Usually means there’s been a vision.

 

You don’t remember it.

  
You won’t remember it. 

 

Whatever.

 

Rolling back over, you bury your nose in the sweat-stench of old pillowcase, think about maybe letting the maid in tomorrow, except you know you won’t.  You might eat her heart out of her chest.  Or just eat her out.

 

These days, you’re a little…unpredictable.

 

Time was you’d hate the cage.  No more.  Now, it’s all you can do to get up.  There’s a remember-was somewhere in the back of your brain, and you hate it because it might be the last part of the old you left standing, save him.

 

He’s a separate memory, boxed carefully behind an iron door rusted shut.

  
He put you here.

 

You hate him.

 

No.

 

You love him, maybe.    

 

Once upon a time…little girls killed grandmas with the big bad wolf.

 

And children with black holes for eyes ate the world right up.

 

It might’ve been yesterday or two thousand years ago.  You’re pretty sure there wasn’t a savior in there anywhere.  Pretty sure.

 

From the shrieking through the thin walls, you’re pretty sure the girl next door needed one five minutes ago.

 

You smirk into the pillow, lap at the damp cotton with your tongue, let the filth roll to the back of your throat.

 

Better than what you usually have on your tongue.

 

He comes.

 

And comes.  

 

And comes.

 

He can’t come anywhere else except here, you think.  He tells you that.  

  
Says, “Sammy,” like you’re still him, that other.

 

Says, “No,” broken.

 

Says, “Can’t,” even as he’s reaching for his fly.

 

 _Can’t_ in your experience equals _will_.

 

And you like it.

 

You like it so much you let the moan travel up the part of your throat not clogged with his heavy meat, you let that moan ride him out, let it choke off as you swallow what he’s got.  

 

You sometimes imagine actually eating him, all that meat sliding slick down your throat, all that blood bathing your face, finally warm.

 

But you won’t do that.  He’s all you’ve got.

 

And after all, he didn’t choose this.  

 

You did.

 

Said, “Dean,” to the demon.

 

Said, “Yes,” when it asked.

 

Said, “Will,” when it gave you its command.

 

Outside the door there’s a desert where life used to be.

 

Outside the door there’s death.

 

Outside the door there’s driving winds that carry the howling souls of the damned.

 

Outside the door there’s Dean, and sometimes inside you, too.

 

Demon gave you Dean.

 

Gave you the world, to do with as it willed.

 

And you ate the world so that you wouldn’t wrap your hating mouth around your brother and bite the life out of him, bite him off at the root and watch him scream.

 

Demon said you could have Dean if the world went to hell.

 

Didn’t even take you a minute to decide, did it?

 

And you’re okay with that, mostly.

 

You hear familiar footsteps at the door, push your head around until you’re looking at the space he’ll be filling, hold your breath.

 

He comes.

 

Says, “Sammy.”

 

You smile and lick your lips. 


End file.
